Food of Love
by masb1987
Summary: Mark’s tired and hungry and hurt, but it’s okay.


Title: The Food of Love

Author: Jordan (masb1987)

Feedback: Please!

Pairing: Mark/Roger, mentioned Mark/various others

Rating: R

Genre: Angst

Summary: Mark's tired and hungry and hurt, but it's okay

Notes: Written back in May for Challenge #111 on Speed Rent. Probably my best work to date.

_Challenge: It always morbidly facinates me in fanfic when people write about how far Mark will go for his friends like how he's getting a lot skinnier because he doesn't eat so that the others have food or money for AZT. I just thought it'd be really interesting to see a fic of how far Mark would go, what would he do to make sure Roger got food or AZT? (that might be a good prompt for a challenge come to think of it, imagine the possibilities) Roger should be in there a lot and a confrontation between Mark and Roger would be awesome. I love angry , worried , and protective Roger. Collins and/or Mark/Roger slash would be fun, but not necessary._

Spoilers: Post Rent

Disclaimer: It's Jonathan Larson's. I just like to torture them.

Growing up in Scarsdale, food had always just been there. His mother cooked constantly, ensuring he was kept well fed. Even in college he'd managed to eat well. But that all changed when he came to Alphabet City. Food was no longer just there. A pizza was film, a loaf of bread was a few extra minutes where he could use his projector. Then, when Roger got sick, that changed again. A dozen bagels was a doctor's appointment, a box of cereal was pills.

Money was tighter than ever in the months following Mimi's death. Benny had hired a building manager to ensure that rent was paid. And their usual AZT dealer was busted, causing prices of AZT to go up. Roger wasn't leaving the loft again, and so it fell to Mark to take care of everything. Not that he minded. Roger was Mark's best friend, and Mark would do anything to keep him alive.

So he'd gotten two jobs, working twenty hours a day for several months. Days were spent washing dishes in a sleazy diner, while nights were in a even more sleazy bar. Both jobs paid shit, but it paid for Roger's AZT and food, while Mark could swipe scraps from the diner to tide him over. When he came home for a few hours rest, he would usually be too exhausted to do more than lay on the couch and listen to Roger attempting to write a new song, then slipped into a deep sleep until he had to go to work again. Then, things changed.

Collins had to be put in the hospital. PCP, they said. The ANGEL ATM was repaired, and Mark came home to find that Roger had used the money Mark had put aside for Roger's AZT to pay rent. There were only three or so days left of pulls left, and Mark was getting desperate.

Crash. The fourth glass Mark had broken at the bar that night. He went for a broom, shuddering slightly as he passed a table of leering men, friends of the manager. They came to the bar most nights, grabbing Mark's ass when he passed, calling him "cutie pie" and "baby." He bent over to sweep up the shattered glass, and just before he straightened up, a pair of hands came to Mark's hips. He stood, turning to tell whoever it was to fuck off, then saw that the man was his manager.

"Hey, boy," the man slurred slightly. Gary smirked at Mark's wide eyes as he pulled the filmmaker closer. "Come with me," he whispered, pulling Mark towards the back of the bar.

"But, I have to-" Mark protested weakly, as they entered Gary's office.

"Scotty can take of everything for tonight," Gary said, sitting at his desk. "Now, you need money for your pretty boyfriend, don't you?"

"He's not my-" Mark stopped at Gary's raised eyebrow and sighed. "Yes, I do." The grin on the manager's face widened.

"Then I've got an offer that will be very beneficial to both of us," Gary rose, coming to stand inches from Mark. "Some clients would be willing to pay good money for the pleasure of your… company." Mark's eyes closed as a pair of hands slid around him to grip his ass. "I'm willing to let you keep tips and 40 of what they pay you, to please them. On top of your regular salary, of course." Mark couldn't help the sharp intake of breath. He knew it'd be a lot of money, money that could buy his best friend years. He found himself nodding.

"I'll do it," he whispered and Gary pulled away, opening the door to call out to someone. Mark didn't know what he said, though, as a wave numbness and nausea overcame him. He heard one of the men's voices instructing him to get on his knees. _For Roger,_ he reminded himself, as a hand threaded through his hair and yanked him forward.

Gary counted bills, smirking as Mark struggled to pull on his pants again, wincing as the rough fabric of his jeans pulled at scrapes. A large wad of bills were shoved into Mark's hands, and his eyes widened. There had to be enough money for Roger's medicine, and more.

"How'd ya like to do this more often?" Gary asked, leaning against his desk before Mark. A few months of this, and he'd probably be able to quit for good. Then he thought of Roger, of his dislike for Mimi's old job. This was a million times worse, but…

"How often?" he found himself asking as he pocketed the cash.

"Every night," Mark fought the bile that was rising in him.

"C-can I pick up another shift too?" Gary smirked, and they settled on hours. Mark barely managed to make it to the back alley before emptying the meager contents of his stomach.

Roger was sitting on the table fiddling with his guitar when Mark slid the door open. He looked up, smiling, then frowning when he saw Mark's pale and shaky form. He quickly rose to meet Mark and help him to the couch.

"I'm fine," Mark protested weakly, wincing as he sat.

"What's wrong?" Roger asked, running a concerned hand over Mark's sweaty face.

"Just a cold, I think," Mark whispered, laying on his side on the couch. "You should stay away, you cou-" Roger's callused hands left Mark shivering on the couch.

"I'll get you some soup," Roger called from the kitchen, and Mark's protests were cut off by another surge of nausea. He squatted before the toilet, dry heaving shakily. Finally, he felt it stop, and Roger pulled the small man into his arms, carrying him to the couch where Mark was deposited. A bowl of soup was shoved into his hands.

"Eat," Roger instructed, holding out a few crackers as well. "You look like shit," Mark glanced shakily at the vegetable soup. _Two dollars a can, enough for a couple of pills for Roger,_. a voice taunted in his head, _Selfish pig._ Mark shoved the bowl into Roger's hands.

"I'm not hungry, you eat it," he whispered, laying back on the couch. He'd barely closed his eyes when Roger pulled him up, sliding behind him so Mark's head rested on Roger's shoulder, Roger's legs on either side of him. He couldn't help but stiffen at the contact. Taking slow, calming breaths, he opened his eyes. "What are you doing?"

"Feeding you," Roger's voice said in his ear. A damp metal spoon was pressed to Mark's lips, and he shook his head. "Eat the fucking soup," the pressure of the spoon increased, and Mark's sore lips reluctantly parted.

When Mark woke up the next morning, his body ached in places he didn't know existed. He stumbled into the bathroom for a quick shower. He quickly rinsed off the sweat and filth from the night before, then stepped out to examine himself in the mirror. There was no bruising on his face, but he found some on his hips and chest. He did look like shit. His ribs, chest, and hip bones were more prominent than ever, and there were dark circles under his eyes. Sighing, he went to his room, where he quickly dressed. He then went into the kitchen to put on a pot of tea. As he waited for the water to warm up, Mark found Roger's bottle of AZT and began counting pills. There were only two less than there'd been two days before. Enraged, he closed the bottle and marched over to Roger's door. He angrily opened it, and Roger sat up sleepily.

"Mark?" Roger asked, rubbing his eyes. Mark through the bottle of pills at Roger, nailing him in the chest.

"Take your fucking AZT," he commanded, then stormed over to the couch to sit down. After a few moments, he was joined by Roger.

"I'm trying to make them last," Roger said softly, looking over at Mark. "I know we don't have the money-" Mark smiled slightly.

"We do now," he said, and went over to where his jacket laid. He pulled out the wad of cash he'd earned. Roger gasped, joining Mark on the floor near the door.

"Where'd you get that?"

"My manager at the bar gave me an advance," Mark lied, biting his lip, "I quit the diner and I'm picking up another shift at the bar, since I got a raise there…" He looked up at Roger, who was looking at him with an unreadable expression in his eyes.

"You're working too hard," Roger said softly, placing a gentle hand on Mark's cheek. Mark reflexively leaned into Roger's hand, and bit back a moan.

"I'm fine," he whispered, smiling as reassuringly as he could manage. He pulled away slightly and straightened up. "If I keep this up, I'll be able to quit in a few months, and we'll be set for a while."

"I know, but at this rate, you might not make it another few months," the concern in Roger's voice would have made Mark smile if he weren't so frustrated.

"I'll be fine, I'm working less hours now." He said, turning away to pull on his jacket and scarf. "I have to head to the diner to quit, then I have work at the bar-" A hand on his arm pulled him back to face Roger.

"Please, get some rest," Roger whispered, and Mark nodded.

"I'll be back later," he said, smiling, "Take your AZT."

The months that followed were relatively uneventful. Mark still nagged Roger to take his AZT (which Roger did), and Roger nagged Mark to get some rest and eat (which Mark didn't). Collins had gone to teach at Princeton upon his release from the hospital, but called often enough to keep Mark from worrying.

At the bar, Mark was gaining clients, and earning even more money. For some reason, men liked him. He hated what he did, but forced himself on. Blow jobs weren't blow jobs, they were doctor's appointments. Sex was bottles of AZT.

Mark was losing weight, in part due to the meth Gary sometimes gave him, and also just because he didn't have an appetite. He couldn't help but think about what the food could buy Roger as he was eating, then call himself a selfish pig when it came back up in an alley. But being able to pay for Roger's AZT, knowing he was buying his best friend years… it was what kept Mark going.

One night three months after Mark's job at the bar changed, he came home to find Roger talking as animatedly as Roger got to someone on the phone. He looked up when Mark came in and held up a hand.

"Yeah, look, I've got to go, but I'll see you later. Thanks again!" As soon as the phone hit the receiver, Roger looked up at Mark, grinning broadly. "That was Todd, from the band. We're going to do a gig next week!" Mark smiled, and tightly embraced his best friend.

"That's wonderful!" He exclaimed, pulling back. "Congrats, man."

"Thanks." Roger smiled, the looked around the loft, "I need to practice. Listen to these songs I wrote." Watching his roommate run around the loft excitedly, Mark knew that this was what made the bruise and nausea and disgust worth it.

The week leading up to Roger's gig was one of the best in a long time. Mark came home every day to find Roger scribbling down lyrics, and spent all of his free time listening to the new songs, filming and making suggestions. Roger's excitement was contagious, and Mark found himself filming again, and going to work smiling.

The night of the gig, Mark stood front row and center in the dancing crowd, proudly filming his best friend. The bar was filled with energy, and the Well Hungarians were a hit.

After the show, Mark sat at the bar nursing a beer, watching his best friend mingling with fans. Roger looked so beautiful, smiling and laughing, occasionally glancing over at Mark and winking in that way that made Mark feel like running over and squealing with the legions of fan girls. Suddenly, a hand tapped his shoulder, and he turned around. A vaguely familiar man stood there, holding a near empty glass of some sort of alcohol.

"I know you from somewhere," the man slurred, and Mark felt a shiver run up his spine as he recognized the man as being one of the more frequent customers.

"I-I'm sorry, do I know you?" he lied shakily, clutching his camera tightly to him.

"I know you from somewhere," the man repeated, taking a step closer to Mark,

"Is there a problem?" Roger's smooth voice came from behind Mark and to the right. Nausea welled up in Mark, and he stood shakily.

"No, he's just drunk," Mark said, smiling up at Roger. "I wanted to say hi to Todd and Evan, where-" The man grabbed Mark, pulling him back to him.

"Yer the whore from Gary's place!" Mark froze, looking at Roger's darkening face.

"I-I don't-" He stammered before Roger grabbed him by the arm and dragged him into the alley. Once outside, Roger shoved Mark against the wall.

"What the fuck was that guy talking about?" Roger hissed, and Mark tried to breath.

"N-Nothing," he whispered, taking a step away from the wall only to be slammed back against it. His camera slipped between his fingers, clattering noisily to the grimy floor of the alley. But Mark barely heard it as Roger's furious face came inches from Mark's.

"Bullshit!" Roger shouted, and Mark felt his legs weakening as Roger slammed his hand against the wall inches from Mark's face. "You're a whore?" the musician spat out the last word, and a hand grabbed Mark's collar. "A fucking slut?"

"I-I had to!" Mark said, pleading weakly. "There was no money, and-"

"I don't want to hear your fucking excuses," Roger said, pushing away from Mark and releasing him. Dark spots filled his vision as Roger turned away from Mark. "I can't fucking…" A shaking hand ran through Roger's hair. A few seconds passed before Roger turned back to face Mark. The coldness of Roger's expression stabbed Mark. "I want you out of the loft by tomorrow." Mark breathed in sharply. He took a shaky step away from the wall as the alley darkened.

"Please," he whispered, "Please, don't-" And there was darkness.

Mark woke up to find himself tucked into a bed. It wasn't his, and it took him a minute to realize it was Roger's. His head pounded and his body ached. He fumbled for his glasses next to the bed, coming up with nothing. Suddenly, a voice came from the doorway.

"You're up," it was Roger. Mark squinted as Roger approached him, kneeling beside the mattress. "How are you feeling?"

"Like shit," Mark managed, struggling to sit up. "What happened?"

"You passed out," Roger replied, and the events at the bar came back to him as he laid back down. Sitting up took too much energy.

"Oh," he managed, turning on his side to face away from Roger, tears stinging his eyes. Roger flipped him over, wiping gently at the tears.

"Hey, it's okay," Roger whispered, and Mark's hand grabbed at Roger's, pulling gently. He needed Roger near him. Roger laid down next to Mark, smiling gently.

"Do you hate me?" Mark whispered, looking away from Roger.

"Of course not," Roger replied, placing a hand on Mark's chin to force the filmmaker to look him in the eyes. "I could never hate you." A sob escaped Mark and he clutched at Roger, who wrapped his arms around him. After a few minutes, Mark pulled away. Roger smiled slightly, wiping Mark's eyes. "I do want you to quit that bar," He said firmly. Mark opened his mouth to protest, but Roger cut him off by gently placing his lips on Mark's. The kiss was chaste and only lasted a few seconds, but was filled with apologies and pleas and love and everything they wanted to say but couldn't. When Roger pulled away, Mark felt himself blush as he nodded.

"Okay," he whispered, and a grin spread across Roger's face.

"Good," he said, giving Mark another gentle kiss. When he pulled away, he smiled happily at Mark, eyes filled with so much love and concern that Mark wanted to cry. "I'm going to make you some soup, we need to put some weight on your scrawny ass." Roger said, standing up and leaving Mark alone in the bed.

As Mark ate the vegetable soup with Roger, AZT and doctors and heat was the furthest thing from his mind.


End file.
